


between everything, yourself & home

by insunshine



Category: Actor RPF, The OC
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:44:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An O.C AU where Carey Mulligan is Kirsten and Sandy's adopted daughter, and Andrew Garfield is the teen runaway they take in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between everything, yourself & home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the occasion of Hazyflights' birth, 11/2010.

"We could call it the Carey 'n Andrew hour," Andrew says, lounging back on the sun chair in front of the pool. He's wearing shorts that stop just above the knee and his skin is tanned in the way that artificial sunlight can never quite manage to copy.

Carey shields her eyes with her palm and squints at him. "We could," she says, stalling for time. "but where would the surprise be then?" She turns away, looking out over the infinity pool to the city below, but she's not quick enough to miss his smile or the way the tops of his cheeks are burnt from too much exposure to the sun.

"Who needs surprise when you have top billing?" Andrew asks, and Carey fights it, but she laughs harder than she expected to, reaching across the space between their loungers and swatting him with the magazine she hasn't even started reading.

"Who indeed?" She laughs as he scrambles into a sitting position, palms slapping slippery over the plastic chair. When he leans to kiss her, she lets him, hiding her surprise.

*

Carey's parents are out of town again. "For the foreseeable future," she says when anyone asks, but that's not entirely true. They're coming home eventually.

"You could have yourself emancipated," Andrew says from where he's lying on his bed, face half-hidden by blankets. The pool house is less pristine than it was a year ago, but Carey thinks she likes it. The company is nice, anyway.

"Yes," Carey says. "but then who would water the plants?"

"Me, I suppose," Andrew says, sounding more thoughtful than sleepy this time. Carey tries not to stare when he stretches, catching sight of his suntanned knees again. "What a terrifying thought," Andrew says, pulling her attention. He smiles at her, grin lopsided, hair a mess and Carey tries not to stare at him too obviously.

"I can't leave you then, can I?"

"The responsibility of keeping shrubbery alive is too much of a cross to bear, Carey Hannah," Andrew snorts as he speaks, leaning back against the headboard. "You can never leave me."

She doesn't promise, but it's a fairly close thing.

*

When she was six, Carey did dressage. Laying flat on her bed with his dingy sneakers kicked against the wall, Andrew elongates the words. "Dressage," he says. "Dress _age_."

Carey's cheeks flush pink and she tucks her hair behind her ears, arranging the pens on her desk just for something to do. "Yes," she says eventually. "I'm never letting you alone in this house again," she adds. "You are a menace."

"Relegated to the pool house," Andrew responds with a smile that's mirthless. "what a tragedy."

"Of the deepest sort," Carey adds, and then she ruins the aloof effect she was going for entirely by crawling onto the bed in the space beside him. The sheets are rumpled and warm and they smell of fall and spice and Andrew. Carey doesn't drop her face forward to sniff the linen, but it's because Andrew is sat next to her, taking up all the air in the room and the space on the bed.

"There's my girl," he says, and drops his arm around her shoulders. He doesn't move to kiss her again, but she's not sure she'd stop him if he did.

*

On Tuesdays, after ballet, Carey takes a course at the university, just to knock out some early credits, to get her on her way. She's usually exhausted when she gets home, but not so exhausted that she can ignore the way Andrew's car is parked in the drive, twisted in an unnatural spiral. There are heavy black tire treads against the light-colored asphalt and when she gasps, it catches sticky in her throat. It feels like the first sound she’s made in hours.

She doesn't bother with the main house, keys jingling in her palm, gym bag heavy on her shoulder. It's November, but far warmer than any place in the fall aught to be, and she holds her breath during the entire walk to the back of the house, throat constricting at the way the door to the pool house has been left slightly ajar.

It creaks as she pushes it further, and the first thing Andrew says is, "Don't." 

As if she wouldn't. As if she could stop herself.

"Andrew." She squeaks out his name, nearly gasping again at the way the skin around his eye is purpling and bruised. His lip is split, blood and dirt matting his hair down. "Andrew," she says again, taking cautious steps closer, sitting on the corner of the mattress. "What—“ she tries. _What happened_ , she thinks. _What could have possibly happened to you?_

She doesn't ask, but he answers the unspoken query anyway. "You know how it goes," he shrugs, and she stares down at her knees and then his, skin still tanned, but cut up now, scratched and bruised. She closes her eyes. "I'm not the most popular bloke 'round these parts."

She turns her face away. “You don’t have to talk to them.”

He smiles, showing her all his teeth as if to bypass the inspection he fears she’ll implement. “Ah, Carey Hannah, but what if they talk to me?”

“You ignore them,” she says through gritted teeth. “That’s what you do with bullies.” She’s fretting, hands fluttering by her sides with the need to do something; to fix him in a way she’s satisfied with. 

“Did your father tell you that?” he asks, voice lower and colder than she’s heard it in months. Longer.

“Sometimes he isn’t wrong.”

“He took me in,” Andrew says, entirely without humor now. He pushes off the bed, and winces as he does so. She catches sight of his palms, torn and gravel-speckled and feels her stomach drop down somewhere near her toes. “I’d say that was pretty wrong.”

“How can you.” She stops herself, closing her eyes, lips pressed together in a thin line. She can’t look at him. “Please don’t say that.”

She isn’t expecting him to touch her, but the feel of his palm against her neck isn’t unfamiliar. “You should probably get out of here,” he says eventually. “I just want to sleep.”

She starts to stand but doesn’t actually move that far, reaching out her hand like he’d actually let her touch him now. He doesn’t, and when she drops her arm, her fingers brush against his.

“It goes both ways,” she whispers, before she loses her nerve. She doesn’t look at him, but she can anticipate the emotions on his face.

“What does?” His voice is still pitched low, and she shivers in just her sweater, the door still tilted open.

Her cheeks are stained red and getting hotter by the second, and she ducks her head before she says, “You can’t leave me either,” leaving the pool house before he can stop her and say something stupidly sentimental and sweet; completely contrary to his earlier brusqueness.

She doesn’t need to more in love with him than she already is.

*

They don’t talk about it, but Carey isn’t sure how they can get past it when Andrew’s face still looks like he went four rounds with a filing cabinet and lost rather spectacularly.

He laughs when she shares the image, over coffee and bagels in the kitchen, their elbows touching as she gulps down the hot liquid, taking care not to burn her lips.

“I do look a fright, don’t I?”

“You should probably stay away from all office supplies from now on,” she responds, rewarded by the sound when he actually laughs. She thinks it’s probably the nicest morning they’ve spent in a while, even with Andrew looking like an deflated pancake. She lets that one slip too, and he just smiles.

“What are we doing today?” He follows her up the stairs to her bedroom, collapsing back on the bed when she sits at her desk and pointedly does not think about the three papers she has due on Monday.

“Misspending our youth,” she says. “I mean, clearly.”

Andrew laughs, tucking his face against her comforter, and something clenches tight in Carey’s stomach, her breath catching as she stares at him. She has to drag her eyes away eventually, because staring at him is like staring at the sun, and cancer isn’t good for anybody.

“I think I’ve done enough of that,” he says, and when he looks up again, the bruising around his eye looks ugly and green and terrible. She reaches her hand out anyway, connecting this time as she brushes the pads of her fingers against his skin.

She wants to ask why he did it, but she doesn’t want to force it out of him, so she doesn’t end up asking after all, crawling ‘til they’re nose to nose on her bed, just breathing each other’s air.

“You terrify me,” she whispers, watching the rise and fall of his adam’s apple, the stubble under his chin and the way his eyelashes are obscene; longer than any boy’s aught to be.

“Really?” he asks eventually, and she snaps her eyes to his, lifting her eyes to catch his gaze. “You’re the only place that feels like home to me.”

*

“You know sometimes I think up stupid shit to say in class, just so you’ll lean over and correct me.” Shia’s a student at the community college and one that's taken to walking her to the parking lot at the end of the night. Carey only sees him on Tuesdays, but he’s always ready with a smile, and she only blushes a little when he says things like that, touching her wrist softly but not pushing where someone else would. She’s grateful for it.

“And here I thought you were just dim,” she says, but she bumps their arms together too, so he’ll know she’s joking.

“I think it’s the accent,” he says. “You sound like the fucking Queen.”

Carey snorts, lifting her hand to cover her embarrassment, but Shia just grins at her, like the unintentional guffaw was his intention the whole time. “I am pretty sure,” Carey says, straightening her top unnecessarily, “that the queen would object to being called the ‘fucking’ anything.”

Shia stops walking and she scuttles to a stop as well, turning to face him with her brows raised. “Shit,” he says, but he’s smiling. “You can never swear like that again, Mulligan. It was like everything I ever wanted in my life, wrapped in a pretty British bow.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but she laughs. She lets him walk her to her car, too, and definitely doesn’t think about the connotations of it when he opens the door for her, leaning against the metal.

“Can I call you?” He asks. He’s a sweet boy, with tattoos for his dog and his mother on speed dial, and she wants to say yes, but she doesn’t.

“You would need my number to do that,” she says, aware that she’s flirting, and that Shia knows it too.

“Clearly you should give it to me, then,” he says. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“I’m not the one doing the asking,” she says, and then she frowns, remembering Andrew at home and the way her heart seizes in her chest every time they're in the same room.

“Can I—“ 

Carey clears her throat and says, “I’m sorry,” because she is. She makes a face she wishes could convey that she does like him but that this is—whatever it is, now isn’t the time for it.

“Man, and I was having a lucky week,” Shia says, but he doesn’t seem too upset. He’ll be fine.

“It’s only Tuesday.” She shrugs. “It’ll pick back up again.”

*

Before Andrew lived with them—well. Carey doesn’t like thinking about before, but when it was like that, when he wasn’t there, when it was just her, it was worse than just being lonely. It was like being empty, but from the outside in, the loneliness consuming her until it felt like she was drowning.

It’s not something she particularly likes thinking about.

Andrew’s asleep on her bed when she gets back from class, and she drops her duffel on the floor with extra care, crawling onto the bed beside him and filling in the empty spaces he’s left for her.

“Hey,” he says eventually, eyes closed, even though she hadn’t meant to wake him. “You smell like fall.”

Carey feels the laugh bubbling from her throat before she can help herself, and when Andrew smiles at her behind closed lids, she feels it all over. “And what does fall smell like?”

He rolls closer, pressing his face to her hair and just breathes. “Apples and air,” he mumbles, thumb resting on the pulse point behind her ear. Carey’s throat runs dry. “Crisp.”

“You’re making me want pie,” she says, trying to distract the moment. His eyes slide open again and she knows she’s unsuccessful, too breathy by far, but he doesn’t call her on it.

“I’d offer to make you some,” he says. “But I’ve already burnt down enough houses around here, don’t you think?”

*

They sleep together. They don’t _fuck_ , but they sleep together, and the third morning Carey wakes to her face mashed against Andrew’s shoulder is also the morning when the bruising around his eye starts to look less like it’s going to spread toward the rest of his face.

“I thought there’d be a hostile take–over,” he says when she mentions, and she laughs, handing him a mug of coffee, and tries not to like it too much, this camaraderie.

“Your face is Switzerland, it seems.” She nudges his arm and settles back on the mattress next to him, taking a large gulp from her own drink.

“Too bad I don’t …make any chocolate?” It comes out sounding like a question, and she’s started to laugh before he’s even finished speaking. “I’m sorry,” he says solemnly. “That was terrible.”

“It was,” she says. “But I liked it anyway.”

They have school, so they can’t lounge as much as they want to, and Andrew kisses her before she jumps in the shower, pressing his thumbs to her cheekbones this time, leaning in with intent.

“I wish it were different,” he says as he pulls away from her, dropping his hands back down to his sides. Her heart starts to jackhammer in her chest and the pounding is so loud in her ears she’s afraid he can hear it.

There are a hundred different things she wants to say, but she doesn’t, she can’t, and the moment passes quietly, quickly, and for that at least, she’s grateful.

*

Their parents are set to come home exactly a week before American Thanksgiving, which she supposes she should just call Thanksgiving, considering she’s been living in the country for the last fourteen years of her life.

Andrew spends the night before in the pool house, and Carey knows because she watches from the kitchen until the lights go out. She feels foolish and young, bare feet chilly against the marble as she stands in the hall in her pajamas, but as she stares out over the pool and into the city, she’s thankful for the first time that no one can see back.

In the morning, they both have school, even though it’s a halved day, and Carey drives them to and from, grateful that the tire marks on the driveway have managed to fade against the asphalt, especially when she sees their parents’ car in the drive.

“You must be excited to see your folks,” Andrew says from the passenger seat. His knees are pressed against the glove box, and there’s a tear in his jeans; a tiny little hole Carey wants to press her fingers against, just to see if it’s as sun-warmed as it looks.

“ _Our_ folks,” she says, but she says it without heat, and Andrew doesn’t look at her after, gratefully or otherwise.

“You know a little piece of paper doesn’t mean anything.”

“I like that you forget that I'm adopted too,” she says, as if that changes things.

“Carey.” He says, sounding desperate, like there are words he needs for her to know, but when she falls back, silent, looking at him and waiting, he has nothing for her, mouth set in an unhappy line. "it's different."

“They love you,” she whispers, and then it’s like ripping off a plaster, she does it, reaching across the gearshift and pressing just the pad of her pinkie against his knee where denim and skin separate and she can feel his warmth.

She’s rewarded by the way that he hisses.

“Are you sure this isn’t Stockholm Syndrome?”

She raises her brows and asks, “Have you kidnapped anyone recently?” She’s not expecting him to laugh, so it’s like a gift when he does, relief coloring his features and making the bruised skin of his eye seem more inviting.

“I’m serious,” he says, and she knows he is, but she’s unable to respond to such stupidity.

She says as much. “I’m not in love with you because we were forced together at a young age, or because you cut off my pigtails or kept me locked in a room and used my braids as pens in your ink blotters.” He blinks at her, and she blinks back, mouth gone dry, because she’s said it, at least indirectly, and the thought of that is terrifying.

“Wait,” he says, eventually, and she’s conscious of the way the drapes flutter every so often. Someone knows they’re out here, even if it is just the maid. “Someone used your braids in ink blotters?”

*

They don’t talk about it at dinner. At dinner, they talk with their parents about their trip, about Jolly Old England, about the flight and how they saw Andrew’s mother when the went for their requisite Date Night in the West End.

“She was spectacular,” Sandy says, because he’s always been kind, and Carey loves him for it.

“She always is.” Andrew says, but otherwise, he's quiet throughout the meal, as quiet as usual, and when Kirsten stands to start putting the dishes in the washer, he says, “No, hey. You guys must be tired. I’ll do it.”

Carey’s on her feet in no time too, adding, “I’ll help,” with the kind of smile she can only hope is convincing. She hugs her parents tightly, has missed them even if the ache wasn’t as direct as it is now.

“You look good, honey,” Kirsten says, fingers curling around Carey’s wrist as she walks past, and Carey thinks about the millions of things she could say to express her feelings.

She settles on, “Thanks,” because it’s the simplest.

Kirsten didn’t cook, but there are still plates to be washed and take-out containers to be put away. By a time-honored and unspoken agreement, Andrew handles the actual washing of the dishes while Carey makes sure the food is packed in the fridge, leaning against the island when she’s done and trying not to stare at his shoulder blades through his thin t-shirt.

“It was nice to see them,” Andrew says, even though his back’s still turned, and she hums because she doesn’t have much else to add. It _was_ nice to see them. It’s always nice to see them, to know they’re there and that they love her; that they always have and will, even if the things that change are beyond their control. Carey stretches her arms out, fingertips brushing against the cool marble, and from above her, she hears Andrew’s breathing, following his movements even without her eyes. “Christ,” Andrew mumbles, and without warning she feels his fingers on her arm, gripping tight.

“Andrew?”

“You can’t just say things like that and not expect me to—" She looks up at him, eyes and lips parted in shock, because he’s picking up on the threads of a conversation left hours ago and she’s a little slow on playing catch-up.

“Andrew,” she whispers again, reaching out to touch him, even as he’s stepping back.

“You guys are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he mumbles the words out quietly, like she doesn’t know; as if she just could have casually missed that fact. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Carey says, because she does know and because she’s not stupid.

“I want to,” he continues, staring at her as if she hadn’t spoken. It doesn’t feel like she’s spoken, it feels like they’re trapped in quicksand and it’s getting harder and harder to get out. “But I—“ 

“It’s probably better if we don’t,” she says, going for calm and failing. If she focuses on her hands against the marble, she won’t focus on his breathing or the way his hands are clenching and unclenching by his sides. She bets his hair looks a fight from the way he’s been tugging at it.

“Yeah.” It feels anti-climactic, but there it is: The Greatest Love Story That Never Was. They’ll get over it.

*

It’s different, having their parents back home again. The dance academy has a recital coming up, so it makes sense that Carey’s spending more and more time rehearsing, even though she’s not performing in it.

“Explain it to me again,” Kirsten says over early-morning muesli and orange juice. “You’re practically killing yourself over there and you’re not even going to dance in front of the crowd? Tell me how that makes sense.”

“I want to be better,” Carey says, and that’s true at least. “But they’re all auditioning for The Academy of Classical Ballet.” She shrugs. “I’m just trying to improve my technique.”

Kirsten hums, sitting back in her chair, and when she says, “Honey, you can be a dancer if you want to,” Carey’s not sure if she wants to laugh or cry first.

“I know, Mom,” she says, practically throwing herself across the island as she does, hugging Kirsten as tightly as she can. “I just can’t imagine making a living by doing two shows a day of The Nutcracker for the rest of my life.”

From the doorway, Andrew says, “There’s a joke in there, somewhere, but I’m not going to be the one to make it.”

“Wise choice,” Kirsten says, but she’s smiling, and she leans up to press a kiss to his temple when he comes closer. “Are you ready for school?”

“Why yes,” Andrew says, spreading his arms wide to showcase his folders and backpack, arranged precisely for maximum effect. “They’re all in order, too, so I can just shuffle them behind each other once I’ve gone to each class.”

Kirsten raises a brow. “Does that mean you’ll be going to all of your classes?” she asks, and Andrew just grins at her until she smiles again, and this time, he’s the one that drops a kiss to her head.

“Sandy at the office already?” 

“The defenders of the public never sleep.”

“I’m well aware,” Andrew says, and Carey glances at him sharply, but he’s smiling when their gazes catch, and she relaxes in increments, all but settled when their elbows brush against each other.

“Do you want me to make you anything?” Kirsten asks the both of them, her lips are quirked like she knows they’re going to laugh at her, and Carey feels another rush of affection in her chest, leaning forward and hugging her mother again, just because she’s missed her.

“We can stop by a Coffee Bean before school,” Carey says. “I mean. If Andrew can get himself dressed quickly enough.”

Andrew quirks a brow. “You underestimate the things I’d do for a spot of caffeine, woman.”

“I don’t think I do,” Carey says, and with a final pat to Kirsten’s arm, adds, “See you in the car.”

*

They don’t have any classes together, which is both a blessing and a curse, but Carey and Andrew do have lunch during the same block, and as she heads out into the bright sunlight after Introduction to Calculus, she’s not surprised to see him leaned against the truck, head tipped back to get just the right amount of sun.

“I wonder if rotisserie chickens are as baked as you,” she muses, and it’s worth it to see him laugh, the flash of his teeth as he turns to look at her and just smiles.

“Their color can’t match mine,” he says, dumping his rucksack in the backseat as they begin driving, leaving the school parking lot with minimal fuss.

“You look far less delicious,” she says belatedly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. The hole in his jeans is growing slowly but surely, and if she wanted she could swipe two fingertips against his knee.

She doesn’t.

“I don’t know," Andrew says. "I am pretty tasty.” He stretches; cracking his wrists and then his back, like he doesn’t know it drives her crazy and isn’t doing it to drive her crazy. His expression is serene, but she catches the mischief in his eyes when she manages to catch his gaze. She rolls her eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but then, they knew that already. 

For a while, they just drive.

At one point, Andrew says, “Are we not going back, then?” and Carey shrugs, trying not to think about her French exam or the fact that she has a student council meeting right after the final bell.

“I don’t think we should,” she says eventually, ignoring how erratically her pulse is beating in her ears. “But we can if you want.”

Andrew shakes his head, so Carey gets bold, reaching across the gearshift and tangling their fingers together. He swipes his thumb across her knuckles, a calming, soothing reminder, and Carey has to dig her teeth into her lip to keep from letting the whimper out, embarrassing and unnecessary.

*

If there were anywhere she’d thought she’d lose her virginity, on the beach just up the coast from Malibu wouldn’t have been her first guess. They sit in silence for a while, the air a little chillier this close to the water, and Andrew doesn’t let go of her hand, not even when she expects him to. “You know I love you too, right?” he asks eventually, and her eyes sting from the wind and the sand, certainly not from anything else.

“Yeah,” she says when he squeezes her fingers in question, but it’s not like he’s ever actually said the words before. Not as open and plainly as this. “Yeah, Andrew, I know.”

He kisses her when she’s least expecting it, nosing against her cheek, pressing his lips to the hinge of her jaw and ear, just breathing her in as if he can smell the sting of salt and tears on her skin already. When their lips touch it’s less electric and more like an explosion. Her skin starts to tingle, to prickle with the awareness that something is happening, and she’s right here and choosing not to stop it.

“I won’t,” he whispers, because she knows he doesn’t want to hurt her, but she doesn’t let him move away, keeping her eyes closed, because she’s not ready to see the look on his face yet.

“I want to,” she says against his mouth, using her fingers tangled in his hair to anchor him down, closer to her. Their breaths tumble out against each other and they sound pained and desperate; a symphony of grunts and groans creating something unforgettable.

 _It hurts_. It’s the first thought she has when he pushes inside of her, filling her with something thicker than the fingers he’d been coaxing in just seconds previously. It hurts exactly as much as everyone had said it would, but when she leans back, she’s pressed against his jacket, smelling like spice and soap and his skin, and when she looks up, he’s there, filling her up. 

It’s exactly as terrifying and wonderful as she’s always thought it would be, and she wants to turn her head away to hide her blush, but after all this, it’s pretty useless to start trying to hide things.

When they finish, when he finishes, he presses lips and teeth and messy kisses against the skin of her sternum, whispering, “I love you,” and, “I can’t believe you let me,” like secrets against her skin.

“I can’t believe _you_ let _me_ ,” she says, tilting his head up and kissing him full on the mouth when he looks at her, memorizing the shape of his lips with her own.

“I love you,” he says, loud enough for her to hear; for anyone to hear, if they’re listening. He stands, sand on the torn knees of his jeans and his belt still unbuckled, and raises his arms above his head like he’s celebrating. “You hear that?” he calls out to the wind, and now Carey does blush, pulling her sweater up and around herself, ducking her face against the sleeve. “She loves me too.”

*

On Thanksgiving, they set the table and eat with the grownups, considering it’s just the four of them. Grandpa Caleb is with Julie and her daughters, and as she talks to him on the phone, leaning against the wall of the kitchen, Carey says, “Say hello to Marissa for me,” even though it’s been years since they’ve spoken more than a sentence to each other. 

They were never really friends, even though they spent the better part of their childhoods living next door to one another, and for a second, Carey laments the loss of a friendship that never was. Under the table, Andrew squeezes her fingers, their twined hands resting just out of sight on her knee. She squeezes back and smiles.

Everything she needs is right here.


End file.
